


between the lines / where i belong

by griefiary



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Jason has a cat and she's a spoiled little princess, it's also jason's birthday, quick flashback but nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25938337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griefiary/pseuds/griefiary
Summary: Jason forgets it's his birthday.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 3
Kudos: 96





	between the lines / where i belong

**Author's Note:**

> Bruce tries so hard you guys. He tries so hard.

He hates it when they get smart. Jason rolls his shoulder, quietly mumbling under his breath as he picks at the window’s lock, slipping into his own Narrows apartment with a rough thud and bump. Some everyday crook got a lucky hit in, pushed him off a balcony, had him pull a Nathan Drake to save his sweet lil’ head from getting bumped. He shakes his curls loose, sighing when the helmet drops to his side, back of his skull pressed back against the cool glass of the window. Home sweet home. He doesn’t notice it at first, maybe it’s the exhaustion of a busy patrol -- prowling the territory he’d carved up for himself, working off a frustration he’d known had been building for a week now. 

Something is off. Wordlessly, he draws the kris from the sheath in the small of his back, hidden under his jacket. He moves to rise, bracing himself on his living room’s coffee table. The adrenaline in his veins is wiring down, reminding him that he’s edging closer towards a crash of nigh biblical proportions. He needs to act fast. He twirls the blade in his hand, moves silently across the living room. 

Nothing. Brucie stirs on the couch when he reaches her, one ear flicking as she stretches, purr in her throat when she recognizes him. He almost feels bad for not reaching down to scratch her chin, but the mug on the table is ever-so-misplaced, copy of _The Bell Jar left_ open on page 143 when he’d remembered only being on page 121 earlier that evening. The hair on his neck rises, and the feline on his couch sprints away then, scurrying into the dark of the apartment. Off to where she won’t be disturbed by her father’s antics. 

The chiming -- never beeping, never beeping -- of the alarm clock from his bedroom tells him it’s nearly four the next morning. 

Jason doesn’t have a dining room. He leaves the den, standing in the doorway where it meets the kitchen. He crosses the threshold, sneering when the wood flooring creaks ever that lightly. Nothing. No one. Empty, except:

To anyone unfamiliar living with his living situation, they wouldn’t notice. Everything has its place, every spice, every knife. Bright and colorful sticky notes full of reminders litter the cupboard and fridge. There is virtually nothing on the wooden countertop, save for a small, rectangular shape wrapped in what his mind tells him looks like the familiar brown of recycled paper. A note, nestled in between the paper ribbons. His eyes flicker over its words, immediately recognizing the handwriting. 

He isn’t here, his instincts supply, and the tension in his jaw and shoulder eases. He slides the kris back into its sheath, the blooming ache crawling back into the corners of his conscience. The wording on the note is simple, to the point. His first instinct is to laugh, dry and all too forced, at the absolute invasion of privacy that this is -- but he stifles it before it can break past his lips and cement his bitterness.

 _Happy Birthday, chum,_ it reads. 

The gloves are pulled off quick, teeth pulling at his fingertips. He thumbs at his domino mask, wincing as he peels it off. Jason doesn’t bother flicking the kitchen light on, hip leaning against the counter as he raises the package up to inspect it. It’s a book, he gathers easily enough, by the weight and feel of it. The stock paper isn’t thick, no doubt Alfred’s consideration -- he’d never liked colorful wrapping paper, had expressed that as early as his 13th birthday. 

He flips it once, twice, not quite sure what he’s looking for; more to the note, a warning. Anything that would hint at the conflict between him and Bruce. He pauses, hesitating to place it onto the counter again. A twinge plucks at his heart, nose scrunching in confusion, pinch in his brow. _You want to find something that isn't there_ , he thinks, not fondly, _What is it that you're looking for?_

Brucie suddenly jumps onto the kitchen counter, rubbing her head and cheek against his side, thrumming loudly. One of his hands falls down to pat her head, still transfixed with the **gift** , because that’s what it is, isn’t it? 

Jason hums, idly wondering if that’s the word he was looking for. 

A soft meow, a paw presses into his side again, and he winces, curses himself for not looking at his wounds first. He sets the book down, not yet tearing the paper from it. He scoops the feline into his arms, kissing her head gently, chuckling when she suddenly decides that _no_ , that’s too much affection, and starts to squirm. He gently plops her onto the couch, next to him, when he settles back in the den. The first aid kit remains untouched on the coffee table, and at least, Jason thinks with no real gut of malice, Bruce has the decency to leave that undisturbed. 

Wounds first. Don’t be stupid. Stupid gets you dead. 

\---------------------

It’s not the light of Gotham’s early morning sun or the chirping of the birds that has him waking, it’s the nipping at his nose and cheek. He half-groans, half-laughs when he opens his eyes, Brucie pushing her paws into his collarbone under her weight. He pulls to the side, patting her side when he rises from the beat-up couch he’d crashed on, looking down to his bandaged chest and shoulder. Damn. He hates it when they get smart. He runs his fingers through his curls, idly wondering when it’d be smart to shower, as he’s making his way into the kitchen. 

He looks down, Brucie whining between his ankles, screaming increasingly louder as her hunger grows -- acting like some poor starved Victorian orphan. Jason rolls his eyes, calls her the spoiled brat that she is, before placing her tuna into her bowl and setting it down. Finally, the princess seems satisfied as she chomps down, her one ear flicking in delight.   
Jason watches her, equally as content. 

His eyes slip past her, towards his side, a brown parcel resting on the countertop. His brow pinches, before suddenly, last night’s memories slip over him as quickly as a pensioner on black ice. Immediately, he chews at his lip, briefly considering throwing it out altogether, as his last real encounter with the Bat replays in his mind like some broken record. Crack. Blood in and around his throat, pulling himself out of the rubble of a collapsed building -- fear-isolation-abandonment wash over him. Jason swallows thickly, brushing past the thoughts, and still tenderly grasping the book. Maybe. 

He tears away at the wrapping, taking the ribbons between his canines. He slaps the book against the wooden top, expression carefully masked with a faux tide of control. His lip turns when he reads the words _The Old Man and the Sea_. Ernest Hemingway. One of Bruce’s favorites. Jason’s gut curls; the book is a soft cover, and older than him, he knows. An original copy, passed down from Thomas to Bruce -- to him. He picks up, with all the consideration that it deserves, skimming through the pages. Ink notes fill them, personal notes and observations scribbled between the lines, at the sides. Suddenly it feels heavy, but Jason doesn’t put it down. He holds it close to his chest, aching. 

It brings him back to a night in the cave, a young boy whining as his grandfather works stitches into him, father at his side as he reads to calm him, the weight of a hand gently on his curls. 

_Come home_ , it’s saying. _Come home, where you belong_. 

Brucie has disappeared now, leaving Jason to stand alone in the kitchen. Jason fingers run along the scar along his throat, now long faded -- not forgotten. 

“I am home,” Jason mutters, grounding himself. His mind is reaching for purchase, he thinks he sounds so certain, so sure. “I am where I belong.” Jason ignores that voice that pipes up whenever it feels the need to rear its ugly head, but that twinge in his heart builds, he shuts his eyes, inhaling. He’s home. 

He’s home. 

When he reads between the lines, he tells himself he isn’t lying.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr url is the same as on here :)


End file.
